Anabel Caride

First Love

The file first saved by my an – xi – uos fingers remains on the hard drive of my heart; I will not delete it. Their errors tick – el me, my clumsiness moving the mouse that today is another phalanx of my hand. The following versions are repeated, without intending to, their architecture; a sterile farse. Names follow one another in my address book like a wardrobe changes as you grow. The names are forgotten, the precise details come out to meet us some morning when we open a file. My hands have lost their inn – o – cent trem – ble . . . But we are the same people